


The Best Medicine

by AntiMaterielGirl



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5249090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiMaterielGirl/pseuds/AntiMaterielGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charon treats FLW's minor shrapnel wounds, and one thing leads to another. Rated Explicit, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Medicine

She has just enough time to cartwheel back wildly, shielding her face with her right arm as the grenade explodes, sending its twisted shrapnel in all directions. She falls to the ground bleeding as buckshot to the face ends whatever hope the offending raider had of seeing the next sunrise.

He extends his arm, helps her up. She is strong, but she won’t refuse help if it’s offered. “Let’s find a place to crash, big guy,” she says, smarting at the pieces of metal embedded in her flesh. A nearly intact house is nearby, so they take advantage of the shelter, making sure to carefully clear it before getting comfortable.  They blockade all the entrances on the ground floor, setting deadly booby traps near the front door – and some by the top of the stairs just in case an intruder decides to get creative.

She removes her boots and armor, careful to avoid the shrapnel in her skin. She’s bleeding, and she knows that it’ll only be the beginning. There’s more blood to come, but he’ll help her tend to her wounds. He always had, ever since she acquired his contract. Ever since they’d given in to lust many months ago, she didn’t even have to ask him to. She remembers that day – she’d teased him mercilessly, goaded him until he pinned her to the wall and had his way with her. He belongs to her and no other.

“Are you hurt?” she asks.

“I am not injured,” he replies. It doesn’t take many words for them to communicate. They have a special bond.

She strips off her shirt and sits in a dining chair while he arranges the first aid supplies on the table. He knows she doesn’t want him to waste a stimpak on this – they’re for more serious wounds. So he lays out the essentials: forceps, tweezers, vodka, bandages, and a small bowl. To the side are Med-X, a needle, and sutures. He doesn’t expect to have to use them – the cuts aren’t deep, and she heals unusually quickly – but he doesn’t like to go into anything unprepared. “Arm first.” She orders.

She braces herself as he bends over, pins her wrist to the table, and pulls out a chunk of metal with the forceps. She stifles a sharp cry by biting her lip, and as he stops to irrigate and dress the wound she says, “Just get ‘em all out, we’ll do it all at the same time.” He nods and continues, the sound of soft metallic clinks in the bowl follow shortly after her grunts and hisses of pain.

It hurts him to see her suffer, to cause her pain. But at the same time, it feels good to touch her- to tend to her, to make her feel better. He notices the blood running down her arm then clenches his teeth and forces himself to focus on his given task. When he finishes, he pours a trickle of vodka over each of the wounds; she stomps her foot and clenches her hand into a tight fist as the vodka burns her torn flesh.

He look up, and into her glittering sapphire eyes. “Your face!” he exclaims. A small piece of shrapnel had gotten past her arm and embedded itself in her cheek, a mere two inches from her eye. She’d carefully shielded her left side from him since the attack, covering it with her hair, knowing that he’d waste precious time fussing over her if he knew. She sits quietly as he examines her wound and picks up the tweezers. Gently, he grasps the offending object and eases it out. Even as gentle as he is, they both know that head wounds bleed like crazy, and this one doesn’t disappoint. A trickle of blood runs down her face and drips down her jaw, leaving a bright crimson trail down her neck. He quickly grabs some gauze pads, saturates them with vodka, and presses down on the cut. Even though it’s not deep, it needs pressure to stop the bleeding. She reaches up and presses down on it, softly nudging his hand out of the way.

Silently chastised, he turns his attention to her chest. The leather armor she was wearing is ratty and torn, offering little protection. Luckily for her, it managed to deflect most of the grenade’s deadly projectiles, slowing the rest down enough to make potentially grievous wounds only minor. There’s only three – the first two are simple, visible. Just a tug with the forceps and they come loose, blood sluggishly dripping from the neat little cuts. The other had gone through the cup of her brassiere, embedding itself in her right breast. She sees his hesitation, then with practiced ease twists her arms behind her back – one dripping blood and vodka – and before he can protest, she’s bare from the waist up. She wads up her bra and tosses it on the table with careless indifference.

He grips her soft breast with his left hand to steady it, then slowly pulls out the sharp piece of metal. She grimaces and grunts as a thin trickle of blood begins to wend its way southward. He pauses for a moment, spellbound. She looks strong, proud. She’s covered in blood, cuts, and liquor, bare to the waist – his goddess of war. He dabs the wound with a square of gauze, and then impulsively takes her nipple in his mouth and sucks greedily. She gasps and presses him into her, as the pain fades into the background. “You naughty thing.” He groans.

Abruptly, she pushes him and stands. He falls backward, catching himself on the heels of his hands. She reaches out with her small foot and pushes on his chest, laying him flat on the dusty, cracked linoleum.  She unfastens his pants and yanks them down, exposing his stiff length to the cool air. She fumbles with her own trousers, quickly sliding her panties down with them, stepping out of one leg. He grasps the hem of his shirt, tears it over his head. As he leans up onto his elbows to watch her undress, she shoves him back savagely. She straddles him and takes him inside her with a loud moan.

He grasps her hips and thrusts up into her as she grinds against him vigorously, consumed with need. She savors the sensation of being filled completely, of his warm, rough hands on her, the hard, cold linoleum on her knees. The cuts on her arm, irritated by the sudden movements, have broken open again and started to bleed sluggishly. The smell of her - sweat, blood, and the sharp tang of liquor – mixes with his earthy scent of dust and leather.

She leans forward, hands on his shoulders, pushing him down into the floor. Her breasts bounce emphatically, her wild brassy hair cascading over her shoulders, brushing his collarbone. She bares her teeth and looks him straight in the eyes, snarling like an animal. She takes him like she owns him – and in a sense, she does.

Her skin is soft under his coarse fingertips, her warm, moist interior spasms around him. She pants, mewls, and he grasps her hips, forcing her down onto him. Her blunt nails dig into his shoulders as she screams in ecstasy; he thrusts into the stiff, shuddering, sweaty body on top of him, releasing himself into her with a primal grunt.

They lie there for a moment, breathing heavily, as reality once again descends upon them.  They’re covered in sweat and vodka, smeared with her blood. He reaches up, cups her cheek, and runs his fingers through her hair. Eyes closed, she smiles and purrs.

“I belong to you,” he murmurs, “…and no other.”


End file.
